


Undress Me, John

by FinAmour



Series: A Change in Altitude [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, John warms Sherlock up, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Protective John, Rimming, Sherlock is an idiot, Smut, Sort of a twist on the bedsharing trope, They probably could have used a blanket but where’s the fun in that, questionable medical practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 07:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13289562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: John and Sherlock are in the Alps for a case. Sherlock comes back one night, cold and wet from the snow, and then things get heated.





	Undress Me, John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agirlsname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/gifts).



It isn’t the farthest place John and Sherlock have traveled for a case, but it’s definitely the coldest.

A ski resort in the Alps. Sherlock insists that they go, because their work offerings have been lacklustre lately, and according to Sherlock, this case is a solid eight. And who is John to argue? He can’t remember the last time he’s taken off from work to travel, and the mountains seem like a lovely, serene change of pace.

The first three days, they keep themselves busy with the typical investigations- exploring the resort and its surrounding areas, searching for clues and questioning people. The days end peacefully and uneventfully with the two men winding down in front of the fire, Sherlock buzzing away at his laptop while John passes the time with a book and a glass of whisky.

All in all, other than the extreme wind chill, it isn’t so different from home.

On the evening of their third day, as John is dozing off mid-chapter, he is jolted out of his state by the sound of Sherlock slamming his laptop shut.

“I’m going out,” the detective announces, and whisks himself from his chair.

John shakes off the approaching sleep, trying to determine if he’s heard the words correctly. “You’re going- what? Where? You can’t go out right now. It’s late, and it’s freezing!”

But Sherlock, ignoring John’s objection, has already dressed himself in several layers of clothing, decadently topped off by the Belstaff. Of course, no matter what the weather, he’d never go anywhere without that.

“Sherlock, stop!” John protests, pulling himself from his chair and setting down his book. “If you’re going out right now, I’m coming with you.”

Sherlock, dusting off the sleeves of his coat, simply rolls his eyes in annoyance. “It’s fine, John. I’ll be back in half an hour.” He twirls, just a tad dramatically, to face the door, and without another word, he exits. John silently watches him go, shakes his head in irritated defeat, and returns to his book.

A half hour passes. John begins to worry when it becomes nearly an hour. He checks his phone; no messages. He opens his texting app and begins to type.

_Everything alright?_

Just as he hits send, the door swings open and a very cold, shaky detective stumbles in, covered in snow.

John bounds upward and darts to Sherlock’s side, immediately cupping his face in his hands to check his body temperature. “Sherlock, oh my god. Get in here before you freeze!”

Sherlock grumbles, his teeth chattering. “I’m fine, John, I’m just a little… cold,” he manages, as he falls into John’s arms.

“Stop talking,” John commands. “Come lie down by the fire.” Sherlock doesn’t argue as John wraps his arm around his waist and guides him to the sofa.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re drenched! What happened? What were you _doing_?” John is on the verge of becoming livid.

“Slight altercation,” Sherlock responds flatly. “I may have ended up rolling in the snow a bit.”

“You know what, spare me the details for now,” John interjects. “We need to get you out of these wet clothes and into something dry.”

As Sherlock flails onto the sofa, he exhales shakily. “Just give me a moment.”

“Sherlock, don’t be daft,” John says evenly. “You’re going to be much worse off if you don’t change now.”

“I don’t know if I can carry out such a task,” Sherlock argues. “I seem to have temporarily lost all the feeling in my fingers.”

“We need to get you dry, Sherlock. Just-” John huffs. “Lie back. If you aren’t going to do it, I will.”

The words escape his mouth without forethought, but the instant they do, John can feel a definite flush of heat around his ears and neck. He tries hard to push it back in his mind.

Sherlock lies there, shivering, his eyes twisted shut as though he is trying to will the cold away. “Fine,” he sighs. “Undress me, John.”

John swallows hard, and with the uttering of those words, the thoughts he had tried to push away begin to flood his brain. Sherlock is lying out and asking him, in that deep baritone voice, to undress him, and it is stirring something in John’s lower abdomen.

If he’s completely honest, he can’t say that he’s never thought about undressing Sherlock before- he just never thought it would be in this context.

“John,” Sherlock presses, “If you’re going to continue to stand there, I may as well just leave them on.”

“Alright, alright,” John snaps back. This isn’t the time to think about the implications of undressing Sherlock. John is a doctor, and this is a medical necessity. He can’t simply let his best friend freeze.

But that knowledge doesn’t stop John’s hands from trembling the tiniest bit as he kneels down on the ground next to Sherlock and begins to remove his coat, a few layers of wool, and a silk dress shirt.

As this happens, through, Sherlock stops his goading, and suddenly falls uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t try to fight him- he relaxes into John’s movements, completely allowing himself to be divested of his upper body garments. John wordlessly removes Sherlock’s shoes and socks, and now all that’s left are his trousers and underwear.

John bites his bottom lip as if doing so will stifle the nervousness that continues to buzz throughout his entire body. “ _Get a grip_ ,” he silently chides himself. “ _You’ve seen hundreds of unclothed people in your life. It’s no big deal.”_

“John, hurry. I’m _cold_. My trousers, please,” Sherlock says impatiently.

“Yeah, working on it,” John says through gritted teeth. He cautiously takes his hands and sets them on Sherlock’s buttons.

And, to John’s horror, Sherlock emits a huff of laughter.

John heaves a long-suffering sigh. “What?! What are you laughing at?”

Sherlock opens his eyes, only for long enough to pout indignantly. “I cant help it, John. It tickles.”

John’s heart thuds loudly, wondering if Sherlock can actually tell that this is driving him mad in all the wrong ways, but he thinks he already knows the answer to that. Apparently, John can’t hide himself even from a Sherlock that’s half icicle.

John returns to the buttons, unfastening one at a time, and slides Sherlock’s trousers down.

Much to his chagrin, Sherlock’s sides begin to shake again in silent laughter. John’s hands snap back in anger. “Sherlock,” he cries, his face beet red. “Stop fucking with me while I’m trying to help you!”

“I’m- I’m sorry, really,” Sherlock wheezes. “I suppose I’m just delirious from the cold.”

John exhales through his nose. “Yes, well, let’s get this over with, shall we?” He tightly grips the waistband of Sherlock’s boxers and yanks them down all the way, pulling them, and the trousers, off past his feet.

And although he’s fully aware beforehand, in theory, that he’s going to see Sherlock naked, he isn’t quite mentally prepared for the image lain out before him.

The man is sprawled onto the sofa, arms crossed at his chest, eyes closed. His head is slightly tilted back, exposing the long ivory column of his neck. His expansive body is long and lean, his skin smooth and impossibly beautiful, akin to the statue of a Greek God.

And John can’t stop himself from taking a long moment to look. His pulse quickens as his eyes venture from Sherlock’s face and treacherously beautiful mouth; down his neck and chest abdomen, to his bare cock lying undisturbed below his waist.

“I should, uh, run a hot bath for you,” John gulps.

“Oh, I think a hot bath might be too much of a shock to my body.” Sherlock peeks an eye open. “In the kitchen, there ought to be a large bowl. Fill it with warm water, fetch a towel, and return as quickly as possible.”

“Right,” John mutters, pausing. “I’ll, er, be right back.”

He bolts from the room into the kitchen, searching for the aforementioned items. As he collects them, he tells himself to breathe. _This is Sherlock. He’s your friend. He’s your flatmate. Your extremely gorgeous, perfect, amazing flatmate who you just happen to be attracted to and perhaps a tiny bit in love with._

“Fuck,” John mumbles to himself. He isn’t quite sure he is ready to hear that particular inner monologue just yet.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock calls out from the other room.

“Yeah, good, good. I’ll be right there,” John responds. He places the cloth into the warm water and returns to the front room. Back to a very, very naked Sherlock.

“So…” John says, endeavouring to sound as professional as possible. “I suppose I’m going to, um, warm you up with this towel, Sherlock. I’ll need to avoid your hands and feet at the moment, since those are the most sensitive areas and could be a shock to you. So I’m going to start with the parts that are responsible for producing the most blood flow.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak, but hums in acknowledgement.

“That’s going to include your neck, your chest, and your… pubic area. Just a warning.”

The room falls completely silent for what feels like aeons.

“Do what you must, Doctor,” Sherlock finally replies.

And at that, a definite spark of electricity shoots straight through John’s groin. Jesus. Sherlock has just given him open permission to touch him. Anywhere. And John’s head is swimming with the possibilities.

He crouches back down beside the sofa, dipping the cloth in the warm water. “Uncross your arms for me,” he instructs, and Sherlock obeys. He brings the towel to Sherlock’s chest, sliding it back and forth, allowing the warmth of the liquid to spread. The water glistens, becoming slick on Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock’s eyes twist shut more tightly, and he inhales deeply, tilting his head back to expose his neck further. The cloth slowly travels up Sherlock’s neck, back down his chest, and up again.

John becomes entranced by the water dripping down Sherlock’s neck, and he finds himself imagining what it would be like to press his mouth to that skin and lick it off.

He idly notices that Sherlock’s breaths are becoming shorter and quicker, and his are as well.

”Okay?” John asks, attempting to control the shaking in his voice.

”Mm, yes,” Sherlock replies, almost inaudible. 

John dips the towel in the water once more, this time bringing it to Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock jumps at the sudden warmth on his abdomen, clutching on to either side of the sofa. John spreads the towel out to cover as much area as possible, moving it in torturously slow, sliding motions. 

And Sherlock moans again, only this time, John is one thousand percent sure it’s a moan of arousal.

John permits his gaze to travel down Sherlock’s body, and the confirmation of his theory is lying stiffly against Sherlock’s thigh.

All is lost, now. John’s own body is responding, his erection pulsing and building. As though of its own volition, the towel creeps its way down past Sherlock’s navel, slickening back and forth between Sherlock’s hip bones, and John purposely grazes the head of Sherlock’s cock at each pass. Sherlock sucks in another breath and covers his face with one hand, sliding his palm back into his hair in an effort to restrain a gasp.

John pauses for a moment, and Sherlock groans audibly once again, and this time it is John’s name on his lips. His hips are leaning upward in invitation, his body craving more. More touch. More warmth. More John.

_Alright, then._

Foregoing the cloth, John dips his hands into the water- it’s warm, but not hot enough to cause discomfort. He then brings up his hand, wrapping it around the base of Sherlock’s cock, allowing his other hand to cup his testicles.

Sherlock bucks into the touch, and he can no longer hold back the gasp that he’s been trying to hide.

“Okay?” John breathes once more.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs. “Yes, yes.”

So John begins to slide his hand over Sherlock’s increasingly hard length, softly kneading his balls while Sherlock writhes and creates sounds John didn’t know he was capable of. It’s the most amazing thing he has ever seen. John continues to stroke, up and down, up and down, as Sherlock arches his hips to meet the movements.

“Oh, god, John, yes,” Sherlock says in a ragged exhalation.

John gazes in awe as Sherlock starts to become completely undone with pleasure- he can’t think of the last time someone responded so immediately and strongly to only his touch. But everything with Sherlock has always been over the top- his senses are keener than most other people’s, and so it makes sense that he would be such a tactile person.

John is now aching and overcome with arousal, and as he watches the image unwind before him, the arousal becomes layered with an undeniable, absolute feeling of admiration. He stops what he is doing, and is met with a grunt of disapproval from the detective.

“John, don’t stop,” Sherlock pleads.

“I’m not, Sherlock, I just…”

Sherlock reopens his eyes and gazes up at John. His pupils are dark with desire, but there is more to it than that. Yearning, vulnerability, and want. They both stare at one another and make an effort to breathe regularly, as Sherlock’s face then softens and he smiles. _Fondness_. _Love_.

John moves his hands up, reaching out and digging them into Sherlock’s curls. He tugs Sherlock’s head up to meet his in a passionate, bruising kiss. Sherlock’s lips instantly part, allowing John’s tongue to explore the warm cavern of his mouth. Sherlock slides his own tongue forcefully against John’s, as though fighting for ownership. They continue to kiss hungrily, messily, until John is unsure of when, where, and how they got there.

After several breathtaking moments, John releases Sherlock’s mouth and leans back. His straining erection is begging to be released, so he finally unbuttons his own trousers. He pulls down his underwear, his cock springing out, dark with arousal and leaking with precome.

Sherlock grins in dazed satisfaction. “Well, look at you,” he says.

John shakes his head in amusement as he reaches his hand down to stroke himself. “Feeling better then, are we?”

“Much,” Sherlock grins. “I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this warm in my life.”

John laughs, and without warning, wraps his arms around Sherlock, spinning his body so that he is sitting upright at the edge of the sofa. Sherlock sucks in another harsh breath, spreading his legs apart, completely giving into John’s authoritative movements.

John leans on to his hands and knees and meets the head of Sherlock’s penis with his mouth. He softly kisses it, lathing his tongue across the tip lazily for several long moments before sealing his mouth over it.

“Oh, fuck- fuck!” Sherlock whimpers, as John begins to bob his head, alternating between sucking and swirling motions. John is soon so far gone himself, he’s unsure of who is groaning louder. He takes one hand and returns attention to Sherlock’s balls while he continues to glide his mouth, up and down, until he can feel Sherlock’s testicles begin to tighten in impending orgasm.

But John doesn’t allow that to happen. Not yet. Instead, he quickly pulls himself away. Sherlock releases a chain of expletives, but John just smirks as he glides his tongue down Sherlock’s shaft, teasing his balls, and moves further towards Sherlock’s hole.

“Oh, God, John. Yes. Keep going, yes.”

And John does. He flattens his tongue fully against Sherlock’s opening, covering as much of it as he can, and slowly, maddeningly, moves his tongue upwards and into a circular motion, loosening the entrance. He repeats this action a few times before plunging his tongue in.

Sherlock cries out as his hips convulse and his hands desperately seek something to grab onto, settling into John’s hair and gripping for dear life.

John works his tongue around the area for what feels like hours, lapping and sucking and kissing and taking Sherlock apart. All the while, his own cock is straining, searching, until he’s sure that he is going to come without even being touched.

“ _John_.” At this point, Sherlock can barely force the words out. “Please. PLEASE.”

The sound of Sherlock begging absolutely does John in. John pulls himself up from the ground and sets his legs on either side of Sherlock, straddling him. He then lowers himself down, aligning their aching erections to meet. He continues by moving himself upwards and downwards so that they are sliding together, the two of them heaving a sigh of pleasure.

As they drive their hips into a steady rhythm, John encloses his hand around both of them simultaneously, stroking and stroking, spreading the wetness of their precome over their joined cocks.

The noises Sherlock is making now are otherworldly, whining, groaning, panting. “John, I’m so close,” he chokes out. “ _Please_.”

John quickens the movement of his hands, rutting his hips up and down to provide double friction, feeling his own orgasm approaching as well. “God, Sherlock. That’s beautiful, you gorgeous creature. You’re so bloody brilliant. Do it now- come for me.”

And instantly, Sherlock erupts over John’s hand with a sharp cry.

The sound drives John over the edge as he comes, too, grunting and gasping, his world shattering around him in the loveliest of ways.

After a long moment of unrivaled pleasure, John slowly returns to his senses. Sherlock collapses back onto the sofa, pulling John down on top of him so that they are both lying down, John’s face buried in the crevice between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder.

And they just lie there, bonelessly, silently, allowing their minds and hearts to become steady.

“Well,” Sherlock finally says. “I don’t think I’m at risk of dying from hypothermia today.”

John chuckles. “I should hope not.”

“Perhaps I should take the risk more often,” he jokes.

“You’d better not,” John warns. “But we can definitely, definitely do _this_ again.” He raises himself up to look directly into Sherlock’s eyes. They look happy, serene, and relieved.

“Sherlock-“ John whispers. “What you did was extremely stupid. You have got to stop making mistakes like that and have some regard for your own personal safety.”

Sherlock says nothing, but lowers his eyes, mindlessly sliding his fingers up and down John’s back. John grabs him by the chin and tilts his head up, forcing their eyes to meet again.

“I mean it, Sherlock. We can… we can talk about what all of this means when you’re ready. But in the meantime, I need you alive and safe.”

Sherlock’s expression brightens noticeably, and though it’s obvious that he wants to say much more, he simply sighs in contentment.

“Next time, you let _me_ undress _you_ ,” he says.

John hums happily and lies his head back down onto Sherlock’s chest. “Deal.”

“Although I did very much enjoy you towelling me off. Perhaps next time we do that in the bathtub.” 

“Noted,” John replies, but he is already beginning to doze off again.

Before long, their breathing becomes regular, and their bodies are entwined cosily. They drift into a deep sleep, warmed only by the crackling fire and one another’s bodies.


End file.
